


no star-death casketed in palms like these

by doseinalia



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Friendship/Love, Introspection, No Romance, Uchiha Itachi-centric, Uchiha Massacre, some sort of poetry for itachi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26259136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doseinalia/pseuds/doseinalia
Summary: If Shisui were here, he’d laugh at him, tell him to share his thoughts because he’d like to hear them. He’d snicker at whatever solemn sentences came out of Itachi’s mouth, harboring Itachi’s words and sentences better than the night could ever dream of.[alternatively: all Itachi wanted to be was nobody.]
Relationships: Uchiha Itachi & Uchiha Shisui
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	no star-death casketed in palms like these

**Author's Note:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for months. 
> 
> for itachi, a love letter of sorts. a love letter to those of you who put yourselves simultaneously last & first and live in clouded ambiguity.

> "You live for truth and, by extension, love all that is cold." - Louise Glück, _Lamium, The Wild Iris_

The moon gleams silver on the grass, each strand idly brushing up against one another in the summer breeze. The moonlight guides gusts of tepid air, roosts over the land, unforgivingly gazing down at the world and judging it in its limelight. Itachi’s cloak is too thick for the summer months but he’ll keep it to himself, no use in complaining or expressing the thought that’ll dissipate with the night; the sun will advance on the horizon, and the whine will cease to exist. 

If Shisui were here, he’d laugh at him, tell him to share his thoughts because he’d like to hear them. He’d snicker at whatever solemn sentences came out of Itachi’s mouth, harboring Itachi’s words and sentences better than the night could ever dream of. 

Instead, Kisame merely glances back at him, treading ahead in the nighttime, looking as ominous and dangerous as he ruthlessly is. Part of Itachi wants to thank him for not prying.

Thank you for not being  _ him.  _ Now, that’s pretty weak coming from him, once again, if he were here, Shisui would flick his nose and tell him to quit being so obtuse, so  _ afraid _ . 

A lump forms in Itachi’s throat; eating his esophagus, guilt threatening to sever his head from his body. Crying never did solve anything. Never made him feel much better either. He swallows the lump, after chewing on it for years, he can gulp it down no matter what. There are no more tears to shed. No more water to waste, the rivers and their fleeting, miniature waves will take care of the rest, waterfalls will weep on without him until the planet becomes mere energy. He hopes that he’ll be a part of the chemical energy living within the blustering water when it’s all said and done. 

The saltiness, the depths of the ocean might yet welcome his grey sentiment and ambiguity; maybe there’s no place for  _ energy  _ like him. (With his luck, he’ll probably be stuck as a star). 

His feet hurt, they’ve been walking for days and there’s likely blisters scattered along his heels, bruises on the top and sores everywhere; sores intertwined with his heart. This sickness debilitates him in more ways than one. He’ll be lucky if he survives this stroll to meet Sasuke. 

Sasuke will kill him for sure. 

Dying at the hands of his younger brother is the best way he can think of going. It’s selfish. Almost too kind and too demanding to force his beloved brother to murder him. Though, he’s only ever known selfishness, his own lifeline dragging him across concrete to fulfill his duties, keep him trained like the good soldier he is. Shisui might disapprove. But now, his plan will come to an end, the pain will come to an end, and he’ll leave the rest to Naruto. 

Naruto. 

The one he could not be. Too clouded and too much of a bad person to be enveloped in light, he’s happy the stars chose someone who won’t ever heel for a master. 

Never mind that. He’s hit a dead end, smacked his head against the cement of a pool, he‘s incapable of progressing any further. He’s not equipped to do any more damage than what’s already been done. He has no home, no place on this planet, no arms to fade into. 

_ Shisui.  _

He followed the dreams, executed the plans to keep peace, attempting to keep the most shinobi alive and yet, he is flawed. Heavily. Call him a dead man walking, capable of the hatred they accuse him of - a known failure to the world he was just trying to protect. He’s still not sure what that  _ makes _ him, or if he cares about what that means within the logistics and frameworks of the mind. In all honesty, he sees himself as darkness that values the light. There’s significance in both, honor to uphold within each, but ultimately they are constructs made up by those who are currently living. He never wanted to be what  _ they _ claim to call a hero anyway. 

As he walks to his death, it’s calming - it’s good to be obscured by the dark.

His work is done. 

He thought he was capable of doing it alone and another soul came along to prove him otherwise. In his life, more than one person has danced along his abandoned neon city, challenging his framework, fabricating the impossibility of being his own best friend. 

_ Guess you were right, Shisui.  _

_ Lonesome night, lonesome light,  _ Shisui would describe their surroundings like this. On nighttime missions, he’d say the phrase and it’d only serve to confuse Itachi. At the time, Itachi thought he was being bitter, but it was quite the opposite. 

It’s a lonesome night and the moon is a lonesome light, his current stroll in the starlight, guided by the will of death and uncertainty for a future Itachi can no longer be a part of. 

It took Itachi a long time to figure out that Shisui had not been characterizing the night or the moon or the cackling trees or the blood thirsty circumstances. Shisui praised Itachi, describing him as the only illumination in the darkness. While they killed for the force of their village, took part in the vengeance and a power struggle between nations, Shisui saw him as fervent incandescence in contrast to all the bleakness. 

The grass rustles obstreperously, Kisame immediately reaches for  _ Samehada _ , keen to defend Itachi so he can die at the hands of his brother. 

“It’s alright, Kisame.” Itachi murmurs, Kisame’s not willing to listen to coddling, still ready to kill on sight. “Whoever follows us is no match for me anyway,” this seems to amuse Kisame as he snorts and drops his hand from  _ Samehada’s _ handle. 

“Never been one to practice humbleness, eh, Itachi?” 

“No need to lie to you,” Itachi says flatly, Kisame snorts again and continues to walk ahead of him, doesn’t bother slowing down to match Itachi’s pace. 

Nobody’s following them. Nobody except Itachi’s shadows and memories that desperately sprint to catch up to him, haunting him until he draws his last breath. The shadow of Shisui lingers behind the uncut, elongated grass stalks, in between the moon and the horizon line, in between the spaces in Itachi’s fingers. He’s there. 

Itachi listens to Shisui’s chuckle when the wind kisses the leaves, hears the laugh when those same leaves crunch under his feet. It’s most abundant in the summertime, noisiest and smothering. During Autumn it’s the echoes that break the bones in his ears; the leaves detonating out of the trees and under soldier feet. Summertime was their time. Shisui loved the heat; his hair curling and growing wild like vines in a rainforest, his skin, drier than usual, cracked with laugh lines. 

_ Lonesome night, lonesome light, Itachi. Kind, Itachi.  _ A memory clouded by sweltering heat comes to mind with those words.  _ Kind Itachi.  _ Like his father had told him before. Shisui repeating those words over and over again until the day of the murder of his own father by his own hands cost him those words to be swallowed in guilt. 

This night reminds him of the time Shisui first described him as kind. 

_ Not kind, Shisui, I’m on the verge of hate.  _

_ Don’t be ridiculous, Itachi, you are loved in more ways than one.  _

Maybe, maybe not. He killed those he loved. 

_ You’ll figure it out one day, Itachi-kun, you are light.  _

* * *

“Hanging out with the street cats again, Shisui?” Itachi calls out. He’s seated on the sandy gravel road, petting two calicos known for their  _ rudeness  _ to the fellow humans in Konoha. “You know, this could be why people aren’t fond of you.” 

“By people you mean, you, right?” Shisui chuckles, sucking his teeth, and clicking his tongue. His eyes stay focused on the purring cats, one of them lazily lounges by his side, the other rubs up on his cross legged knees. 

Itachi doesn’t answer him, he peers down at the cats who are mesmerized, gently petted by Shisui. They're not afraid of him, they don’t hiss or twitch. They’re comfortable. 

Comfortable. 

A word quite foreign to Itachi because he’s not sure what the word feels like or encompasses. Is it basking in the sun? Like these cats? Climbing apple trees and trailing rabbits in the woods? Practicing with  _ kunai _ knives _?  _ Is he comfortable with Shisui? 

“I wish my mother would let me bring them home.” Shisui says. Itachi’s not sure how to respond. There’s no time for pets. He barely has time for Sasuke. “I know it’s silly, but they’d be safer indoors.” 

It  _ is _ a bit silly, but Itachi won’t say so. Preserving life is important to Shisui and he’d never argue against him or his ideals. 

“So, you don’t have a mission today?” 

“Nope, I’m all yours.” Itachi smiles for the first time today. His chest lightens, his face doesn’t feel as stiff. “As long as we don’t pet cats all day,” he teases, Shisui barks out a laugh, the cat laying down gives him a look and arches her back to stretch and leave. 

“Aw, no, don’t leave,” she scampers away, “Alright, fine, tomorrow then,” he waits for the cat to acknowledge him, but she doesn’t. Shisui pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. 

_ Gentle-  _

“So, where are we going?” Itachi stretches like the cat, his back bugging him from the plethora of missions and training. A bug crawls on his calf, it’s annoying but he leaves it, afraid of any implication in his actions, nervousness advancing up to tickle his neck like the bug moving up his leg. 

Shisui hops to his feet, dusts off his pants and grins, “You’ll see, Tachi-kun, you’ll see.” 

Shisui’s ahead of him, he trips every few steps, klutzy when he’s not a practicing, stealthy shinobi. Itachi giggles at his lack of gracefulness every few minutes, Shisui glances over his shoulder and grins back at him every time. 

_ Something about this reminds him of light spilling onto manila folders during meetings, quick red eyes flicking to one another before drawing knives, dimples and smirks clandestine under mossy logs, inside tents, and laying on cots while watching the moonlight pepper freckles onto his skin.  _

After an hour or so into the woods, Shisui begins to hum. It’s an odd song, the melody isn’t easy to follow, and when Itachi thinks he has it down, it changes. 

“I didn’t know you could sing.” 

“Who would care if I can or can’t sing?” 

He has a point, but it’s a pinch to a nerve leading to something like a large gash. “Me.” There’s no use in keeping the bite and malcontent out of his tone. 

Shisui’s loud laugh reverberates against the trees around them, stuffing the space around them with throaty happiness. Lizards and small creatures scatter up trees, owls watch from above- this is rare. Forest dwellers usually disappear on sight if people march in on their home. The air is crisper in the forest, outside light struggles to peek in through leaves, gasps for a breath of the cushiony forest floor. The light pushing in between thick branches is gentle, nuzzling the top of Shisui’s curly hair every few seconds, illuminating the curve of his nose when he throws his head back to laugh. 

_ Pretty.  _

Odd? 

“There’s no time for singing, just like there’s no time for cats, I know, Itachi, I know.” 

The sad statement does nothing for Itachi- he’d rather not think about it, not talk about it, not engage in this conversation today. He’ll spiral into a thought coma, unable to see clarity in his surroundings. In sleep he dreams about bloodshed, death,  _ inevitable  _ conflict; an active coma during the day only means he’ll see blood behind these eyes that see all, eyes that move fast, cursed eyes of a clan that he can’t quite place. 

But, Shisui says his name, over and over again, a reminder that he’s addressing him and only him- not a clan or the shinobi world around him, just him; and the  _ on-the-verge-comatose  _ state dissipates everytime Shisui exhales his name out of his mouth. This is comforting. Maybe this is his own definition of comfort. Someone who stops the spiraling, the thoughts of pointlessness and hopelessness; the thoughts that sneak in and tell him he can’t change a damn thing but he’ll die trying and he knows it as a mere worthless fact. He’d sacrifice it all and Shisui would grin at him and say,  _ that’s the Itachi, I know.  _

That’s comfortability: a person who says his name and instead of horror, no analysis of which a name means, it’s moth’s wings at the tips of his heart strings, ingesting the marrow of his collarbones in serenity. 

“I didn’t say anything, Shisui.” 

“I know, but I could tell you were thinking it.” 

“Wrong,” He waits to see if Shisui will throw him a look over his shoulder but he doesn't, “keep singing.” 

Now, Shisui glances back at him, grinning and eyes squinted, not watching where he’s stepping but carelessly staring back at Itachi. 

There’s a metaphor in that. He’ll think about it later. 

As he starts to hum again, Itachi lets the sound melt into the background of the forest. The birds chirping sound more like bleating goats, piercing and scaring away smaller animals. After an annoying while, he realizes they’re not birds, they’re crows. They screech into the vast greenery, disappearing every few seconds above them and then appearing again in Itachi’s line of sight. Black, cloaked, and shiny, they mellow out only to start up again. 

It reminds him of the time on the cliff, the time where he saw black- they quiet down. Itachi can’t see or hear them anymore, Shisui hums into the forest and it’s the only other sound around. He’s still humming the odd melody, too sad and ominous for the mood. 

“Almost there, Tachi-kun.” 

* * *

“Do you really think he’ll come?” Kisame asks the moon, poses the question into the night sky as if it holds the answers- Itachi lacks trust in the stars. 

“Yes.” 

“Killing your own brother, Itachi? Can you?” 

Once again, he’s asking the sky, pleading to the stars and Itachi wonders if he’s hoping there’s something more to his soul than the foulness expressed on the outside. Kisame forgets, or may as well not know, his plan is to die at the hands of the only one he loves. 

“I guess you did slaughter your clan.” 

_ Ah, there it is.  _ The thing some will never forget, the thing Kisame forgets now and again. He says nothing. Kisame can beg to the outer planets all he wants, he won’t change his mind or budge. 

“Have you no ounce of love in your heart, Itachi?” He’s joking, teasing him if anything, this question isn’t for the sky or the stars, Itachi thinks it’s not for him to answer either. Kisame cracks a wild grin, teeth horrifically sharp and venomous. 

The way he repeats his name over and over again reminds him of Shisui. Always referring to just him, never confiding or trusting in anyone but him, disregarding the laceration on the leaf of his headband and the name of a clan he’ll never utter again. Maybe it’s to grasp his attention, make him believe there’s someone still looking out for him. Itachi knows better. The only one still looking out for him is Sasuke. 

Shisui was wrong about one thing, he’s not  _ lonesome _ . 

* * *

The river ahead leads to a waterfall, there’s no doubt about it. The current sweeps up loose sticks and rocks, collides with boulders and hugs the logs and trees planted and lodged at the muddy clearings standing among patches of gooey grass. It’s freezing. The wind whips Itachi’s hair into his eyes and his mouth. The river howls with the wind, warning them it’s near winter; near the time for the stars to fall in microscopic pieces fraudulently posing as snowflakes. 

“This is almost as bad as the time you took me to that dirty pond in the summer.” Itachi deadpans, hoping Shisui doesn’t take it too personally. 

“This time we’re not going to jump in, not like this.” 

_ I’d jump with you.  _ Shisui’s curly hair seems to stay put in this windiness, curls flicking his temple every minute. Itachi’s hair flails uncontrollably, the rubber band long gone and belonging to the choleric river. He brushes it out his face for what seems like the hundredth time. He’s vaguely aware that Shisui’s staring at him; he’s caught him doing it more often than not these days. 

These days; the ones with orange leaves, apricot daylight, the ones Shisui collects from the floor before they wither away, hands them to Itachi, tells him they’re as temporary as he is, as extraordinary- 

-at that point, Shisui smacks his lips shut, presses them shut, and merely waves a hand, telling him they simply remind him of Itachi. 

Cantaloupe leaves are few and far between at this clearing; grey and gloomy, folded with dusky wings and Itachi’s gruesome hands. 

Why did Shisui bring him  _ here _ ? Wherever they are reminds him of his own nightmares, the spirals, trapped in a loop from clan eyes, lavender eyes mirroring maroon ones.  _ His own eyes.  _ He wipes the thought from his mind; has Shisui unlocked something in his head? Coiled around these woods, existing in the swampy soil, cattails slimed up with algae, a pirouette away from living in the same nightmares Itachi’s been having since he was 5. Does he breathe here too? Does he remember all the blood, the sharingan’s staring back at his disobedience? Does he blame him for stopping the coup without all the bloodshed? 

The blood shed will come regardless, they both know this. So, why here? Why this place - where Itachi’s face is masked by ebony hair, unable to meet Shisui’s red eyes gleaming back at him? 

“Are you implying that we’ll eventually jump?” Itachi’s hair still burns his eyes so he switches from keeping one eye open and the other closed, taming his hair with one hand. 

A laugh, swept up by the winds, droning past Itachi’s ears and flowing to the river, “Nah, Itachi, you know we’ve never had a choice when it comes to jumping in head first.” The trees seem to dislike this statement, blubber against each other, screaming at each other’s branches. Shisui clicks his tongue in response, “They’ll push us before we jump.” 

_ You’re as stubborn as a bull, as a mule, as a street cat, _ Shisui’s voice fills his head as Itachi spits out his next defying sentence, “Not me. Not ever. They’ll never touch me.” 

“Always the idealist,” Shisui chuckles humorlessly, and Itachi can’t  _ see  _ him properly. Not with the wind like this, his hair unforgiving, the howling and moaning around them, “maybe that’s why…” the words get lost in between his hair smacking his ears and the river screeching over clumps of Earth. 

“They’ll never lay a hand on me.” Itachi ignores what’s been previously said, what’s been possibly misheard- _god, your_ _stubborn, uncompromising, rigid moral compass, Itachi_. 

As he pulls more locks out of his eyes, he sees the curly haired Uchiha snort, “I know they won’t. They never will, will they? Or haven’t they already held a knife to your neck, Itachi-kun?” He speaks his name, but he’s asking the waterfall for advice, the water must hold more answers than Itachi could ever offer up to him- blue and grey were generally more approachable than red. Water’s more fluid and flexible than Itachi could ever hope to be. 

“Here, lemme help you.” Shisui’s moving towards him, discards his prophetic musings for soft, dark eyes and docile hands. When his feet land in front of Itachi’s, he takes as much hair as he can manage with both hands, then gently strings up more and more into his palms. While Shisui stands in front of him, massaging his scalp into a tight ponytail, Itachi watches his complexion churn into pillow clouds, tinted pink from a setting sun. His hands feel good on his head, good in his hair, good when he tugs it slightly. All his oxygen, swept up by the coming storm, punching him in the gut, all the while the forest warns them menacingly. There’s dirt in his throat, the wind’s probably causing his mild allergies to act up by whipping dust into their line of vision. Shisui’s wrapping his hair, now twirling a rubber band into it. 

When he’s finished, Shisui grins and tugs his hair twice. “Now you can see.” His smile contains cherry dimples and star-streaked eye crinkles and it sends tingles to Itachi’s fingers. 

_ Now I can see you.  _ A pinch to the gut reminds him he needs to be careful, don’t go wallowing in twisters that last no more than 10 minutes, in whirlpools that’ll drown him.  _ Don’t lose control.  _

Shisui’s staring at him again, not a care in the world if Itachi catches him doing it.. And if they were better shinobi, Itachi might be able to read his mind, might be able to pinpoint what it is, what he wants, what they want, what the world will be like in 10 years - he might actually be able to  _ see _ Shisui for what he is, all their killing and sacrifice out of sight, bruised and scraped into the floor for them to pick apart and recognize. 

Shisui’s breath catches as he exhales, “Lonesome night, lonesome light, Tachi.” His eyes are soft, softer than Itachi’s ever seen them, gazing upon him like never before, in a new buttery way. 

_ You’re made of moonlight- _

“It’s not night.” He murmurs, stupidly, mesmerized by the pithy, syrupy way Shisui’s watching him, talking to him, reaching a hand up to brush broken hairs off his forehead. Never mind, the furious weather, the capricious forest life around them; the river can drink them up, swallow them whole, cavities will rot the wild-life black, leave the forest ruined and drippy with molasses. 

Shisui smiles lightly, “No, Itachi, it’s not night.” He reassures him, confirms the reality in question. 

They must look half-baked, standing, ogling each other in a laconic sort of dopey trance. “You keep saying my name…” 

And Shisui laughs. He laughs and grins like Itachi doesn’t, what Itachi lacks, what he’s  _ missing _ is right in front of him. “Habit.” 

Habit? Habit or comfortable? Habit because he’s comfortable.  _ Comfortable.  _ The word resounds in his head, lapping up the dreamlike state in Itachi's mind. “H-how?” He stutters; the word ‘comfortable’ groaning with the river and the shrubbery around them. 

After a long sigh, Shisui shrugs. “I like your name. Reminds me we’re still alive. It’s still you, right in front of me. The only Uchiha I trust.” He finishes, bitterness seeping into his final sentence. It’s not obvious, but Itachi can spot the distaste. 

Before Itachi can respond, Shisui extends a hand, flicking his nose with his index finger.

If they weren’t shinobi, weren’t dying for some illegitimate cause that Itachi may or may not believe in, if they were anyone else, Itachi might do something even more impetuous than tie up Shisui’s hair in exchange. 

He doesn’t.  _.  _

His body moves, disconnected from his thoughts, flicks Shisui on the nose and in exchange receives giggles like a gift, like bubblegum popping, brassy and shrewd compared to the fierce storm headed there way, louder than the protests of the trees and muddy banks. 

Comfortability may be the greatest threat to Itachi, ironically it’s never existed in his life, yet it’s menacing and looming above him; every second of time spent with Shisui, more treacherous than the oncoming storm, defenses down - pay no mind to any killer, storm or forest animal, if Shisui’s right in front of him, then that’s his biggest weakness of all. Comfortability. 

* * *

And he can’t stop the coup d'etat, not for the second time. The storm comes, and it’s a full hurricane. 

He knows what he has to do, he knows what he has to do, what he’s been  _ told _ to do, maybe his way out of the village, out of the wars, out of this conflict. The way to stop the fighting for now. 

Panic bubbles to the surface of his skin, gurgling acidity, creating boils on his skin; disguised as the blood in his eyes, but they’re tears he has to control. He breathes in anger and out comes terror, but he knows what he has to do,  _ what he has to do, what he’s been told to do.  _

Disguised in moonlight, he can hear Shisui’s voice,  _ Lonesome night, lonesome light, Itachi.  _ For the first time ever, he’s not here to say it, but now Itachi knows what he means by it, and it was never the compliment he desired it to be, never the affection he needed it to be. Just the bitter reality Shisui predicted, the thing that he loved him for anyway. No sugar coats, no candy gloss. Just the person he knew Itachi would come to be. 

_ Did you know, Shisui? Did you know that it would be me?  _

And he’s asking the moon because the stars have never held the answers, and he’s asking the river because it’s ever flowing past the lives of humans. 

Sasuke answers with his tears, globs of stolen moonlight leaking from his eyes, watering the ground with the future Itachi was robbed of. 

But it’s what he had to do, what he had to do, what he’s been told to do. 

* * *

The sensation of water engulfing him jolts him upright. It still feels like floating. Like sitting at a shallow end of a pool. 

“I take it Sasuke was successful.” 

Itachi almost jumps out of his skin, if he could feel his skin, feel anything. Even the maddening goopy guilt seems to have deserted his weak, sickly body. 

“Over here, Tachi-kun.” The velvety voice sounds familiar, and Itachi glances in the voice’s direction. 

_ Shisui.  _

“Hey you,” dimples and white teeth, a sight Itachi has missed more than he led on, more than anyone knew, more than he realized himself. If he could cry, he’d be sobbing. His senses are dulled completely, lost to the imaginary pool he’s sitting in. “Ah, no, don’t cry, Itachi-kun.” So he  _ is _ crying. Shisui’s smile dulls, concern washes over him along with light; light that reminds him of moonlight, the moonlight that guides him, the moon that’s saved him, the moon, the moon, the moon. It was always the moon. 

Somehow, Itachi chokes out words, unable to feel them reverberate at the back of his throat, “My name,” he swallows roughly, “you’re saying my name again.” 

The sunlight is back in Shisui’s eyes, concern gone in a flash, replaced with his howling laugh, and once again, if Itachi could feel, the laugh would rattle his ribcage. “I’m always saying your name, asshole.” his laughing and his pinched cheeks burn bright red, a smirk lining his lips. 

“Why?” Itachi asks because he can’t feel anything, doesn’t matter what he says, if he’s dead then it’s all behind him anyway. 

“Because,” he cocks his head, playfully but also confused, “you were the only one who mattered.” 

Itachi feels his throat close up, a sob escaping his mouth, even though he only hears the sound, doesn’t feel the suffocation of tears or sadness. “That’s not true. I wasn’t good, wasn’t enough, I messed it up. I’m not good like you wanted me to be.” The sentences are out before he can stop the words from spilling into an empty glass. 

“I never wanted you to be good.” 

“What?” 

“You were never meant to be good, Tachi-kun.” Shisui’s words sound like forgiveness. Like honesty. “I never expected you to be anything but you.” 

And the sobs commence, and if he could apologize to everyone who’s ever mattered to him, he probably wouldn’t, but if he could stay in this self indulgent pity party, while Shisui watches him closely, he might put himself first for the first time, while he’s still consciously aware of his body in space. 

And like he can never grasp anything he wants in his palms for longer than a blink of an eye, Shisui dissipates - he’s thrown back into the world he left. 

He tries some good, _edo tensei_ or not, half dead or not, he tries good because he owes it to Sasuke, not to anyone else but Sasuke. It’s not for himself, he’s done enough for his selfish heart. And this might be cruel, but he’s not willing to be anything but his genuine self. 

* * *

“You told him?” He’s back with Shisui, jolting him upright and back down again, unable to feel anything, all over again. “You told him you loved him?” 

Itachi nods, he’s beginning to feel something, consciousness fading and a coldness taking over. 

Shisui’s smiling, “Maybe you’re not as cruel as I thought.” He's teasing. Itachi misses this. Misses this. That's all he can think about, is how much he selfishly wants to grasp onto whatever the fuck this is and keep it close, destroy his memories of anything else. 

“Lonesome night, lonesome light, right Shisui?” 

“Right, Itachi-kun.” 

* * *

Before he drifts off to sleep, he thinks about red. 

Red eyes, cursed in the middle of the night, he thinks about the cursed name, the blood, the knives and revenge haunting every single red-eyed being with the name  _ Uchiha _ . 

He thinks about a promise he couldn’t keep, all the promises he never wanted to make, always regrettably a part of the inexcusable boxes people placed him in. He never wanted to be defined. Simply opaque, guided by moonlight and dimples. Maybe that’s what made him so damn selfish. Maybe it’s what led to his death. 

Maybe it’s why few people loved him. 

It's why Shisui did. 

He remembers all the red staining his vision when Shisui gifted him his own eyes. The way the waterfall rushed over his limp body, the way Itachi wanted to jump too. For the first time ever, he’s glad he didn’t. 

For the first time ever, he’ll welcome Shisui’s musings. 

_ Lonesome night, lonesome light, Itachi-kun.  _

And that’s all he’ll ever amount to be. 

_ Thank you, Shisui.  _

**Author's Note:**

> thank you if you got this far. i think a piece of myself exists somewhere within these words. i know it's not the usual type of writing people enjoy on here, but alas, it's here.


End file.
